When the trees are glossed in ice
and the sun glances through them with rising fire
They bat the light back and forth, a plaything
And I think
AAAAAAAAAAA THE TREES ARE SPARKLY!!!
Sorry. Poetry is just too grandiose, my brain can’t go there when all that’s running through my tiny mind are oh my fucking god the trees are sparkly, sparkles sparkles sparkles. I’ve regressed. Just in typing this, I’ve keyboard smashed so much that I accidentally opened up a bunch of weird windows for which I didn’t know there were keyboard hotkeys, like an HTML debugger. If it’s not what the sparkles have done to my brain, it’s what the cold has done to my fingers.
Here’s something random. My boyfriend writes songs for fun. Every once in a while I’ll sing one of his songs for him. Hopefully these blues will gently bring us all back down from the sparkle high.
I think there are giants outside
Trees with frozen fingers drag their unfeeling claws over my roof
Something clatters, rattles bangs.
The freezing rain has brought them.
Weather carries monsters in its wake.
When humans stay fearfully inside their homes,
Creatures of fancy cavort in the open air.
The smallest story
Glimpses the universe.
Life gets infinitely smaller
No matter how close you look at it.
Little arcs and blotches,
Tendrils and curlicues.
Every raindrop falls with purpose
Lands with a splat
Leaving a hundred tiny specks
Microscosms of itself.
Winter attempts an advance against fall. To one side of the road, a cold snowscape of white-laced grass, two-tone evergreens, ancient gnarled branches softly pillowed with marshmallow, a study in black and white. To the other, fresh grass scattered with the discards of the glowy orange maple, the radiant yellow fingers of the gumball tree, the startling neon red of the burning bushes. Winter is gaining ground against the bounteous color, blotting out the many-hued lawns with pure white primer, heaping icing on the trees’ heads. The trees, still warm and flexible, shake the wet snow from their glorious manes, spattering sidewalk and pedestrian alike with gobs of slush. Dripping sounds off from all sides, in full stereo. Splat. Splat-splat. It was not the sky, but the trees which rained.
Ever she dances
Nature’s unconscious graces
Embrace all conflict
What is it about the rain.
Maybe because it is the only thing left that man cannot touch.
Its anger may kill us
and there is nothing we can do.
It makes one feel small
to know the rain,
the lightning, the thunder.
The largeness of it all
envelops the sun
until even the tallest building
casts no shadow.
Everybody runs from the rain.
The ones who embrace the rain are anomalies.
To stand in the rain
is to stand alone.
There is a stereotype that these are the ones who know how to live.
No. These are the ones who turn to embrace
their own destruction.
And in doing so,
they live more brightly.
Under the flickering lightning